


A Summer Storm

by alemara



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Milliways, Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:03:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alemara/pseuds/alemara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But of course it rains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Summer Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wanderlustlover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustlover/gifts).



Marian isn't impressed when he opens the door to the lake only to find the sky clouded and threatening.  The day is warm, a sort of sullen summer heat that simmers low over the tall grass and makes even the lake water feel mild, and he can feel her amused eyes on him as he looks up at the gray sky.

"I think," he says, as firmly as he can, which happens to not be at all assuring, "it's going to hold off."

She's standing behind him, and slightly to one side, and he can hear in her voice the way Marian's eyebrows arch.  "Do not attempt to judge the weather, Lord Caspian," she says, dry.  "I fear you do it ill."

"No, no."  He steps out, squinting up.  The clouds are a thick, unmoving mass.  "I'm perfectly good with the weather." 

True, as it happens.

"And I assure you, we will be perfectly dry." 

This, rather less so.

She watches him, skeptical, but steps out despite the air of resignation that hovers around her like a faint mist.  It's all an act, of course: undoubtedly Marian would rather stay warm and dry, but the day he thinks she'll shirk from a little rain is the day he'll accept she's no longer the Marian he knows.

Besides, if she's going to continue to use the _Hope_ , then he needs to make sure she has rather more training than is available from the books in the library.

She's tied up at the end of the dock, white paint dull under the steel-colored clouds.  The lake is dark and calm, and off towards the inlet, he can see an unsettling smudge of dark gray.

Next to him, Marian gives him an amused look.  "Do you perchance note a clearing?"  Her voice has a note of archness under soft innocence that makes him eye her, sidelong, but it's so good to hear humor in her voice, to see a smile lightening the solemn smoke-blue of her eyes, that all he does, irrationally (for there is no clearing, the clouds are heavy and threaten to break at any moment), is nod, with as firm an air of assertion as he can drum into being.

But of course it rains.

Worse, it starts when they're out in the middle of the lake, with the mainsail luffing wildly in a sudden shift of wind that sends the _Hope_ skewing to port, Marian's hand startled and tight on the tiller.  There's a moment of chaos then, as he wrestles with the sail and she wrestles with the tiller, wind knocking at them and making the little boat tips wildly from side to side until there's an ominous _crack_ and she settles, rather abruptly, into the water as Caspian looks back to see Marian, eyes huge and the beginnings of a surprised laugh making her face glow, holding up the broken tiller.

Raindrops patter around them, landing in her curls and wetting his face as the _Hope_ slowly turns her nose into the wind, rocking gently, but all he can see is Marian, laughing, holding that absurd piece of wood, and looking, for the first time in far too long, careless and happy and as lovely as he's ever seen her.

"I'm sorry," is what she's saying as he steps carefully towards the stern, holding out the broken tiller to him with a merry apology on her lips and laughter in her eyes, and she's still laughing as he takes what's left of the tiller, though it's quizzical when he drops the thing with a clatter to the bottom of the boat. 

"I can fix it," he says, without thinking of words or of work or of anything other than her, lips curving, eyes sparkling, her curls weighed down by water, and when his heart makes a queer sideways hop that's become so familiar to him of late, he finally understands what it means.

She tips her head to give him a questioning look that turns surprised when he sits, suddenly, looking at her like he's never seen her before, never noticed the color of her eyes, the perfect clarity of her skin, the way her mouth is always giving her away in laughter or anger or annoyance.  There's rain on her cheek, and he lifts a hand to brush it away, realizing as he does how still she's turned, like a deer uncertain whether it should stay or flee, and he knows he ought to move away, to laugh and tease her for the ruin of his tiller, but when he lifts his eyes to hers a jolt strikes through him and his fingers thread through her hair to pull her to him in a kiss.

There's a heartbeat, a heavy thudding sensation, and she's tense against him, but then something shifts -- her lips part -- his hand finds the curve of her waist and he thinks, fuzzily, that her arms go around his neck and also that Marian tastes like rainwater and the fresh breeze all around them and that kissing her is like being given a cool cup of pure water after a week in the desert.  She's soft lips and warm breath and the wild delight of a bird taking wing, and when he pulls away, feeling dazed and suddenly uncertain, her eyes are the same color as the rain-spattered water all around them.

She lifts her eyebrows at him, and he ducks his head to laugh, abashed, self-conscious, and already wishing to kiss her again.  "It will take a while to get back to shore," he explains, and her eyes narrow, but then her hand finds his cheek and his arms go around her to rest flat on her back and, frankly, they're both wet through before they even _start_ back to shore.


End file.
